Not So Forbidden Friendship
by saphira and shruikan
Summary: Stoick the Vast was not a dragon-loving man. But with the help of his eager son and a particular Monstrous Nightmare, he just might learn.


**All right, guys! There are too few Stoick the Vast stories out there. There are too many devoted to Toothless, or Hiccup, or Hiccup and Astrid, or – dare I say it? – Toothless/Hiccup.**

**Blegggh.**

**I scour the site for Stoick stories, and I'm sad to say many aren't that great. There are a few exceptions, of course. Here are some you can try:**

**How To Train Your Father**

**The Terrible Terror of Stoick the Vast (highly recommended! Great read)**

**But what I feel is missing are fics about Stoick getting a dragon. I mean, he needs a freaking dragon. His son is the legendary Dragon Master. COME ON!**

**So here it is. This has been playing around in my head since the movie came out, and I just had to put it on paper. Er, Word document.**

_**Not-So-Forbidden Friendship**_

**Hunter's Catch**

Things were different at Berk.

Three months. Three months had passed since the demise of the Red Death. Three months had passed since the end of the seven-generation war. Three months had passed since the integration of the dragons. And it was four months since the chief's son had shot down a dragon and, completely against his custom and that of his tribe, had taken a leap of faith to befriend it.

Now Hiccup and his sleek black dragon, the Night Fury he called Toothless, were unrivaled heroes.

Everything, from customs to ceremonies to daily routines, had changed. Instead of footprints in the mud, there were now pawprints and clawprints. The streets were now filled with the sounds of rumbling, purring, and growling on top of the usual hustle and bustle, and the air was filled with the sound of mighty wings flapping. One only had to walk out one's door to see the change. Instead of fear-filled skies where people were always looking over their shoulders for a raid was a cautious tension in the air. Food bins and water bowls for drinking and bathing had been fixed and built onto the roofs of buildings. The catapults, once used to bring dragons crashing down to earth, were modified into roosts and nests. War hammers and battle axes collected dust on the walls of former warriors' homes. Dragons, whether the Vikings liked it or not, were now a part of daily life and there to stay.

Hiccup and his new friends – emphasis on _new_ – set the standard for how the Vikings had to treat dragons. Dragons were proud, wild creatures that needed to be treated with caution and wariness. Or so the villagers believed.

They had to deal, however, with the shock of seeing their beliefs dashed before their very eyes when they witnessed Hiccup and Toothless. They were always together: playing, walking around, chasing each other around and wrestling. A sound reached the Vikings' ears that most had never heard, never dreamed could exist: Hiccup's laughter. Being around Toothless just made him so _happy._ Not even Hiccup's new girlfriend, Astrid, could compare with the boy and his best friend. If such a normally sarcastic and quietly annoying boy could be made so full of joy at just the sight of his dragon, what could be so bad about dragons after all?

Many, Vikings and dragons alike, were eager to change and to experiment. People claimed dragons like they were going out of style. Barns and aviaries were constructed to house the peoples' new pets. Children chased Terrors through the streets with delighted laughter. Nadders and Nightmares were being taught to avoid setting buildings on fire. Gronckles and Zipplebacks were being trained to ignore chasing sheep at all costs. And above all, people were learning how to fly on their dragons. It wasn't only Hiccup's responsibility to teach them; the other teenagers took up this job and only came to Hiccup for major help. Hiccup had enough duties. He had to make designs for dragon saddles for every species. He had to answer questions and give tips to every Viking who asked. And above all, he had been given the duty to rewrite the Dragon Manual, scrapping fighting techniques for basic facts, measurements, quirks, habits, and training tips for each dragon species.

Hiccup was treated differently now, too. Whenever he walked across the street, people parted the way for him, as though his very presence deterred them. It had something to do with the large black panther dragon at his side, but more to do with the new respect they had for him. His inventions, once so annoying and wasteful, were now suddenly so intriguing. When the villagers had questions, concerns, or fears about their dragons, Hiccup was the one to be asked. He was suddenly the idol to look up to in this strange new world where dragons weren't just mindless, bloodthirsty killing machines.

Not everyone was willing to change, though.

While Hiccup had been in his coma, a Thing the likes of which had never been seen before was held in the Great Hall. Vikings screamed and argued and complained and roared to each other, asking _why_ should they let themselves be peaceful with the dragons, and _why_ did they have to give them food and drink and shelter? The war had ended, but the wounds the Vikings had suffered were still fresh. How many countless homes did the dragons demolish? How much livestock and resources had been stolen by the dragons' greedy mouths? How many people – how many warriors, women, _children_ – had been slaughtered by the beasts? The ones who spoke against the dragons were many and very loud; they wanted the dragons killed immediately while they were weak.

Those who spoke in favor of the dragons staying were led by Gobber the Belch and none other than Stoick the Vast, chief of the tribe and Hiccup's father. He felt a changed man. He was determined to make it up to his son for what he'd done – _everything_ he'd done. He was the dragons' most adamant speaker. No one could persuade him. And he came out the victor in the debate; the dragons would be allowed to stay.

This angered a lot of Vikings. Those who were battle-worn, those who had seen too many fights and fire and death, those who saw the dragons as unforgivable just couldn't stand the thought of living with the beasts. Those who lost a daughter to a Nadder couldn't be in the same room as one, knowing that a fellow villager considered it a _pet._

But the worst, most grievous offender was that damned Night Fury. That black beast, the one who had blown up countless homes and workplaces and killed so many people. The thing that made it different from the other dragons, the thing that made it the absolute worst, was that it was the only Night Fury from the nest. Meaning that every casualty, every helpless family trapped in the rubble of a struck house, every warrior torn apart by its lightning breath was brought about by the one they called _Toothless,_ like it was some harmless, innocent creature. And they called it a _hero._

So a lot of Vikings left. They took ships away and never came back. Maybe they went to other Vikings tribes besides Berk. Maybe they started a new tribe somewhere on another island. No one knew, and no one bothered to find out. It was a new era, ushered in by the chief's son and his dragon.

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Stoick the Vast was not a dragon-loving man.

Oh sure, he was the father of the most pro-dragon person on Berk. Sure, he had vigorously defended the dragons during one of the most important Things in Viking history. Sure, he had to put up with the "fearsome" Night Fury all day long (and now all night, too, since Hiccup had started letting the thing sleep in his bed after the Snoggletog incident). This did not stop him from being ver nervous around the dragons.

Truthfully, he was just so used to them being vicious and bloodthirsty that he couldn't let his guard down around them. The first time he'd seen his son playing chase-and-wrestle (a dragon favorite) with Toothless, he'd automatically assumed that the Night Fury was attacking him, and was about to tear the thing's head off with his bare hands (truthfully he couldn't do that, though he would never admit it; Toothless had a very thick neck). Hiccup had stopped him and explained in time, so the black beast kept its head another day.

Whenever he passed a dragon on the street, he stared at it out of the corner of his eye to make sure it didn't try anything suspicious. He watched the dragons playing with children like a hunting hawk, ready to jump in at a moment's notice if the dragon in question got too enthusiastic. He kept a dagger in his fur vest, just in case, though carrying weapons around had long since been out of practice.

Three months. Three months and he just couldn't trust the beasts. He knew a lot of other Vikings felt the same way, but the only person he trusted to admit his own feelings to was Gobber, and Gobber didn't even understand. Gobber had adopted a small colony of Terrible Terrors along with his Boneknapper and they were always in his forge, darting around and getting into small skirmishes with each other. Gobber used them to ignite high-heat fires, he said, but he coddled and spoiled them all that same, and didn't even try to hide it. Behind Hiccup, he knew the most about dragons; his advice, however, was mostly concerned with fighting them from his dragon-training days.

Stoick was beginning to think he would never change. He was being left behind in a rapidly evolving world, and there seemed to be nothing he could do about it.

It bothered him more than it should have.

Whenever the chief of the Hairy Hooligans was feeling overwhelmed, confused, or just in need of some thinking time, he would go for a stroll in the woods. The feeling of being surrounded by fresh plants, birds singing and bugs calling, and the wonderful outdoor air cleared his mind more often than not and let a plan form in his mind.

So here he was now.

There had been a storm last night. A bad one. So bad the houses shook in their foundations and a lot of people and dragons had to take refuge in the Mead Hall. So bad, in fact, that Hiccup had asked Stoick to order everyone to keep their dragons inside their houses. Even dragons that were not theirs had to be in a building. With the violent winds, Hiccup had said, the dragons could easily be swept up by the hurricane and tossed around until they died of exhaustion or were struck against something. The Vikings and the dragons alike had waited out the storm, and the weather forecasters (now new and improved, thanks to flying mounts) predicted another storm coming tonight.

Peaceful carnage surrounded Stoick. Fallen trees, snapped trunks and branches, twigs and leaves littering the ground. The ground was worn smooth from the dust that had been swept and eroded away. Grass was torn out in large groups. Water droplets clung to everything, making the world shine with little silver dots. In a matter of minutes, Stoick's boots were soaked.

He stood still and sighed, closing his eyes, breathing it all in. The scent of the forest and the aftermath of a natural disaster was something poetic. Not that he would know, since he was never much of an artsy type. Maybe Hiccup would appreciate it.

He heaved out a heavy breath, not wanting this peace to end. In a little while he would have to go back to the villages to oversee the home repairs from after the storm. He didn't want to in the least; sometimes it was so _boring_ being chief. Home repairs weren't particularly boring, and were very important, but sometimes he felt like shirking duty to just have his own time. Maybe he could go visit Gobber to wile away a few hours (though his friend's Terrors were more than annoying; they loved to mess with Stoick's red bushy beard, and more than once several of them got tangled in it). Maybe he could invite his brother Spitelout to a day-long hunting trip. They hadn't done that in ages. Or maybe he and Hiccup could go fishing. Just father-son bonding time. No distractions, no responsibilities, no meddling attention-seeking black dragons. Just Stoick and Hiccup. Maybe they could actually talk about something, now that Hiccup was as revered as Stoick was. But all Hiccup ever wanted to talk about was dragons, or baby dragons, or dragon training, or dragon saddles, or the Night Fury and whatever weird or funny thing it did that day.

Years of practice and hard work silenced Stoick's footsteps as he walked up a hill, balancing his weight and avoiding moving anything by instinct. He crept across the rocky hillside, debating with himself over whether he should make plans with someone soon to let out some stress.

A flash of black and red. Stoick froze.

Black and red was not a part of the forest landscape this time of the year. It was a tentative spring, and everything was lush and green and moss-covered. Stoick narrowed his eyes and crept forward.

He walked along a ridge overlooking a shallow dip in the land. Many bushes and ferns grew here, and the ground was nearly invisible with the combination of them and all of the brown and gray trunks of the downed trees, for they were quite numerous in this area. And right in the middle of the tiny valley was a huge red-and-black mass.

It was a Monstrous Nightmare, and it was truly monstrous. It was the largest Nightmare he'd ever seen. It was bright red and crisscrossed with black tiger stripes and dots. Its jagged teeth, horns, spikes, and claws were razor-sharp and longer than any other Nightmare's he could remember. White and pinkish scars covered its back, its wings, and its head and neck. It was obviously a survivor of many vicious fights and skirmishes.

But it couldn't win a battle against Mother Nature. It was trapped on the forest floor by a thick tree trunk that must have cracked and fallen during the hurricane. The tree was lying across its shoulders and neck, effectively pinning it to the ground.

Stoick slid down the edge of the ridge to investigate it further, caution and wariness guiding his every step. A downed dragon was a dead dragon, but still a dangerous one.

He paused and frowned. What was such a thought doing in his seasoned brain? Dragons were no longer enemies. Dragons were loyal, loving, devoted pets. They wouldn't attack anyone without reason.

. . . Or so Hiccup would have said. Hiccup could see the good in everyone and everything.

Stoick stopped in front of the Nightmare's tangled body. It was completely still, its wings limp, its jaws agape and its tongue lolling on the ground. Stoick sniffed the air. The scent of freshness and wilderness clouded his nostrils, but there was no extremely strong smell of a dead dragon. If the dragon was dead, it had only been so for a short while.

Stoick leaned forward cautiously, not taking any chances with it. The Nightmare's horns were as long and tangled as tree roots. Its teeth were like swords, its claws scythes. Its muscles, tense and unmoving beneath its red scales, were huge for a Nightmare, almost more muscular than the Night Fury.

Almost. Nothing beat that black devil in muscle and thickness.

Stoick found himself looking all over its body at the scars. There were so many of them. This was an immensely old dragon, to be sure. Not even Stoick himself had this many scars.

It was only his age-old reflexes that saved him. With a flash of fiery eyes the Nightmare jerked its head forward and snapped its jaws savagely. Stoick dove backwards and came up in a crouch, glaring at the not-so-dead dragon.

It snarled, curling its lip, as it struggled to free itself. Only as it moved did Stoick notice its wing. It must have been caught in the air during the storm, because its right wing was twisted unnaturally, and twigs and branches were caught in its spikes and horns. It reared what little of its neck was free back and spat a globule of sticky flame at Stoick; he easily sidestepped it. He was a little confused. Why didn't the dragon just set itself aflame and burn through the wood? Even to an impulsive Viking who didn't think things through too often, this was obvious.

The Nightmare gave a raspy, hissing shriek and heaved backwards, its hind claws digging into the dirt. It carved deep troughs in the earth as it made a futile attempt to get away. When it was made clear that it wasn't going anywhere it stilled, a low hiss in its throat as it stared at Stoick with hate-filled eyes. He glared back in kind.

Stoick felt around in his vest for his knife and took it out, grasping it in one hand. Thoughts of how to get past the dragon's defenses raced through his mind. Every sense, every instinct was being used to size up this dragon and how best to kill it.

He slowly began to approach the Nightmare, which leaned back a little as though to stay away from him. It snarled extra loud, warning him to stay away. It spat another stream of sticky flame; it didn't even land near Stoick, and he noticed it was much weaker than the previous glob.

Stoick tensed himself, ready to dash in and stab the dragon. He teetered on the edge of his boots, waiting for the perfect opportunity. Every nerve in his body was alive with the thrill of the chase and the kill. The Nightmare weaved its head back and forth, its orange eyes slits, its spikes stood up to their full extent to make it look more menacing.

Stoick was about to pounce when a niggling thought intruded on his mind: what was he _doing?_ The leader of a dragon-keeping tribe, about to kill a dragon? The dragon-killing times were over. The _war_ was over. Why would he still _consider_ this?

Then something worse occurred to him: What if people found the dragon after he killed it? What if people made the connection that while everyone else was working or sleeping, Stoick the Vast was missing, and later a wild dragon turned up dead? How could they trust the dragons then, when their chief was revealed to be unable to trust them?

What would _Hiccup_ say?

He would be crushed.

It was this last thought that lowered Stoick's hand. He couldn't kill any more dragons. He had to adapt. He had to _change._ Vikings were supposed to trust dragons, feed them, love them, care for them. And it seemed like the change wasn't going to come to Stoick, so he would have to work for it.

Stoick huffed out a sigh and backed away from the dragon. It straightened its neck a little and growled, as though to make sure he was leaving. He gave it a loathing stare and rumbled, "Yeh live to see another day, devil. Count yerself lucky." Then he turned on his heel to get a search-and-rescue party from the village. They would need their biggest cart and team to get this monstrosity to the village.

He felt the Nightmare's stare burning into his back until he was out of sight.

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**Most of Stoick's behavior will be based on my dad, who hates animals of almost all kinds (he's okay with cats). He refers to them by their species ("Get this dog away from me," when I constantly nag him that her name is Pia), or just as "that thing." He's (for some reason) terrified of my bird, who is literally the size of his hand, and he refuses to even look at my dog. I feel that Stoick would be almost exactly like this, since he was so dragon-hating before and all. **

**R&R, if you wish. I have no idea how long this will be. Maybe six or seven chapters? And updating will be slow on this, since it's not very high on my priority list It's the lowest, actually, of all my multichapter stories.**

**Yay!**

**EDIT: Okay, FF, that's cool. Just skip random letters and make me go in and fix them manually, yeah, that works great. And apparently fixing them manually doesn't even work anyway! Wherever I'd put "..." it deleted them and the last letter in front of it. Does FF always do that?**


End file.
